Page 47 of After We Fall

Wait. Why can’t I open my eyes? I swallow. Don’t panic, Penelope. Don’t panic.

Finley’s voice rises and moves away from me.

Where is she going? In her absence, bitter wind brushes against me, sending a chill to my bones. Okay, maybe it’s time to panic.

“Yes, ma’am,” Finley says nearby. “I got my coat off. I’m putting it on the spot.”

The spot?

Before I can ask, rough fabric is shoved against my left temple and agony shoots through my brain. Oh. That spot.

“There’s more blood coming from somewhere else,” she exclaims to the operator.

More blood. My chest heaves with a fearful sob that threatens to rip me in two. I can’t do anything to help. I can’t even see. Why can’t I see? With everything in me, I attempt to draw my lids open, but it’s as if they’re glued shut.

“I think this other blood is coming from the back of her head. But there’s not as much there.” She pauses. “No, ma’am. It’s not pooling at the back of her head.” Another pause. “Miss Penelope? I’m supposed to tell you we can’t move you. They’re on the way.”

“I-I can’t—” I swallow and draw in a ragged breath. “Open. Eyes.”

“Oh my word! She can’t open her eyes! When will the ambulance get here?” Another pause. This one longer. “Oh. Let me see.”

I feel her body heat. She’s hovering over me.

“Okay. Wait. I think your eyes are okay. Oh no. It’s the blood, Penny Lady. You have a cut above your eyebrow. The blood is caked over your eyes.” She shifts her weight. “Did you hear that, ma’am? I think Miss Penelope’s eyes are okay. Can I wipe the blood off?”

In a few minutes, I won’t need her to wipe the blood off. My streaming tears of fear and agony will wash the blood away for her.

“She said I’m not supposed to touch anything else, Miss Penelope.” The hand holding her coat to my head presses in, and I moan. She curses. “Sorry. Sorry! I-I am just so sorry, Miss Penelope.” Her voice cracks.

I want desperately to help her. To say so many things to her. To comfort her. Is she hurt too? Why can’t I remember what happened?

The sweet sound of sirens fills the heavy air.

Okay. It’s going to be okay. Someone will take care of Finley.

And me. I whimper on that thought.

“Oh my gosh. Do you need help?” A voice I don’t recognize calls from elsewhere. A bystander?

Before Finley can answer her, the ambulance blares its announcement into the parking lot. If I could shoot out the siren wails with a shotgun, I would. In an effort to roll away, I curl my good arm into my chest as if I can create a barrier between myself and the hideously loud noise.

“Don’t move, Miss Penelope. They’re coming.” Finley’s voice bounces next to me. Is she perched on her haunches? Is that her shin rubbing against my thigh? If I wasn’t so grateful to feel a part of her bubbling personality rubbing up against me, I’d chastise her for moving.

Then, in an instant, life becomes a commotion of swirling responders.

After assessing my general condition, a gentle-voiced male EMT uses swift movements to wipe away the blood that binds my eyelids closed.

When I finally pry my eyes open, I’m punished with streaking light that pierces my optic nerves. I groan and struggle to use my good arm to shield my face, but the EMT is crouched over me in a way that restrains any movement.

“Hang in there with me,” he says as he shines lights into my pupils, compounding my agony. “Can you tell me your name?”

I can only whisper pained answers to a few of his multitude of questions. I know my name. I know Finley. I know the day of the week. I know the president’s name. I think I’m at Finley’s place of work, but I have no idea why I’m on the ground in an emergency situation.

The questions. The questions devour my meager shreds of energy reserves.

My eyelids droop. Maybe if I can rest for a few minutes, the answers will come to me.

“Miss Reid? I need you to stay awake for me. Okay?”